The Golden Flood
Edwin Lefevre
Sinopsis
The Golden Flood The president looked up from the underwriters’ plan of the latest “Industrial” consolidation capital stock, $100,000,000; assets, for publication, $100,000,000 which the syndicate’s lawyers had pronounced perfectly legal. Judiciously advertised, the stock probably would be oversubscribed. The profits ought to be enormous. He was one of the underwriters. “What is it?” he asked. He did not frown, but his voice was as though hung with icicles. The assistant cashier, an imaginative man in the wrong place, shivered. “This gentleman,” he said, giving a card to the president, “wishes to make a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars.” The president looked at the card. He read on it: MR. GEORGE KITCHELL GRINELL “Who sent him to us?” he asked. “I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,” answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the matter. The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar. “Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers: “I will see him.” He busied himself once more with the typewritten documents before him, lost in its alluring possibilities, until he became conscious of a presence near him. He still waited, purposely, before looking up. He was a very busy man, and all the world must know it. At length he raised his head majestically, and turned—an animated fragment of a glacier—until his eyes rested on the stranger’s. “Good-morning, sir,” he said politely. “Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said the stranger. He was a young man, conceivably under thirty, of medium height, square of shoulders, clean-shaven, and clear-skinned. He had brown hair and brown eyes. His dress hinted at careful habits rather than at fashionable tailors. Gold-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious air, which disappeared whenever he spoke. As if at the sound of his own voice, his eyes took on a look of alert self-confidence which interested the bank president. Mr. Dawson was deeply prejudiced against the look of extreme astuteness, blended with the desire to create a favourable impression, so familiar to him as the president of the richest bank in Wall Street.
Disponible desde: 28/08/2019.
